


Accidentally Secret (or Four Times FBI Employees Didn't Realize Will and Hannibal Are Dating)

by stoic_swan



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: A little bit Sugar Daddy, Caring Hannibal Lecter, Courtship, Gen, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mild Gore, Mild Language, Secret Relationship, Sexual Content, Valentine's Day Fluff, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter, semi-established relationship?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:14:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29366841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoic_swan/pseuds/stoic_swan
Summary: Will and Hannibal have been "something" for a few months now. Hannibal is clearly angling to have The Relationship Talk while Will would rather eat his badge. Hannibal decides he will engage Will in a semi-public courtship instead. Surprisingly, absolutely nobody but Will notices.(Fluffy, somewhat humorous, and sweet-- zero darkness here)
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 43
Kudos: 306





	1. Courtship

**Author's Note:**

> This is being written for a Discord server's Valentine's Day Bingo challenge. This chapter covers the squares "Courtship" and "Secret Dating" (although these ideas will also be incorporated throughout later chapters). 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy a touch of Valentine's Day sweetness!

In the dim, warm light of the study, Will had the uncanny feeling he and Hannibal had somehow let the world drift away from them and were now floating somewhere outside the bounds of reality, suspended in time. Any number of factors could have caused the dreamy feeling: It may have been how the only sounds were the crackling of the fire and their low voices; it may have been the effects of the expensive, smooth scotch Hannibal had poured into two old fashioned tumbler glasses. Or, just possibly, it may have been how Hannibal watched Will with sherry-colored eyes that held a smile rarely shared outside of the impressive Baltimore home. Will glanced at his glass, noticed he’d only taken a few sips, and decided he hadn’t drunk enough to start thinking so poetically. Besides, Hannibal had just asked him a question and was awaiting a reply that Will’s lagging brain hadn’t formulated yet. 

He took another sip of scotch, a hint of molasses playing on his palate, and pieced together a response. 

“Relationships require negotiation and reciprocity. Two identities conjoin; parts of each are lost to create spaces for the other,” Will said, waving a hand vaguely as if to dismiss the mere notion of romance. 

“An optimist might posit the whole is greater than the sum of its parts,” Hannibal intoned good-naturedly. 

Will shot him a look from under a raised brow and swirled his glass in small circles, leaving a trail of condensation on the side table next to his chair. Unamused, Will replied, “I don’t think Aristotle was talking about dating, Dr. Lecter.” 

If anything, the gleaming hint of challenge in Hannibal’s eyes only grew at Will’s words. 

“A psychiatrist might attribute your grim view of romantic relationships to a fear of vulnerability or unfortunate prior experiences. A lazy psychiatrist would question you about your parents’ relationship,” Hannibal stated matter-of-factly. “I suspect neither theory would so neatly describe your reluctance, though, Will.”

Will watched Hannibal warily, aware that the doctor was baiting him into a conversation he’d normally shirk. That only made Hannibal’s tactic marginally less effective.

“I presume you have your own theory?” he asked the smirking older man. 

“Of course,” Hannibal began, “but I’d much rather hear yours.”

For a moment, Will considered Hannibal’s request that had been delivered with a small smile. Then, the words registering, he laughed-- a true laugh-- in spite of himself. In return, Hannibal’s smile grew as he chuckled along with Will.

When his laughter died down, Will commented with a lingering smile, “Talk about lazy psychiatry.” 

Hannibal clicked his tongue at Will chidingly and replied, “Guiding a patient through self-reflection is fundamental to modern therapy.”

“I’m not a patient,” Will shot back, his words teasing and laced with an almost audible grin. 

“No, you’re not,” Hannibal conceded, then added, “which is all the more reason for me to withhold my theories and ask for your own thoughts.”

Will sighed and leaned back in the chair. He could tell Hannibal this wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have, and the other man’s sense of propriety would keep him from protesting. However, Will didn’t want to break the easy spell of the evening, and a part of him wanted to lean into the embarrassing heat of the conversation. Will knew he was on borrowed time when it came to delaying this conversation; more than that, he wasn’t so oblivious as to neglect the fact that it was objectively unfair to brush off the man Will had woken up beside at least three times a week for the past two months.

“People are exhausting,” Will offered simply. Will planned to stop at that, but Hannibal waited until the silence became almost uncomfortable, prompting Will to speak again through a self-deprecating smile: “The few times I was involved with someone, I had to choose whether to make them happy or be happy myself.”

Hannibal cocked his head at an angle, bangs just beginning to fall loose after a long day. His smile melted away as he observed Will curiously. 

“You believe their interest was predicated on your ability to take the shape of what they desired?”

Will let the words tumbled around in his mind, seeing if they fit into the spaces there. 

“If you’re offered a mirror, it’s hard not to look,” Will said, bringing the glass to his mouth for another sip. More lightly, he added, “My mind was crowded enough without a long-term renter.”

Hannibal leaned back in his chair and looked at a point somewhere along the far wall. As calm as his surface remained, Will could see his thoughts churning in the narrowing of his eyes and in the measured casualness of bringing his fingers to tap on the rim of his glass. If Hannibal was capable of looking at all perturbed, this might be a preview of what that unsettling view would be. 

“And if you were admired for your inherent qualities, no vacancy required? No expectation?”

“Admired, huh? We’re a few centuries late for courtly love,” Will quipped, still unsure of how to respond. Hannibal’s gaze remained fixed on the wall, and his features were held tight as he thought. 

“Not courtly love, no, but courtship, perhaps. You might fare better in a situation allowing for less ambiguity than modern relationships typically entail.”

“Should I set a dowery?” Will asked dryly.

Finally, Hannibal glanced over at Will, still thoughtful but lightening with a hint of renewed amusement. 

“Courtship need not be so transactional, Will. Although, gifts are traditional if given from a desire to bring joy to the object of one’s affections,” Hannibal replied evenly-- almost academically. 

He made the entire notion sound so reasonable-- so normal-- that Will almost believed him. A memory rose to the surface unbidden as a warning: Will at 20, standing in the center of a shopping mall cluttered with tweens and soccer moms, agonizing over what Christmas present his college girlfriend would like. He grimaced at the vision.

“If this is your idea of encouragement, you ought to stick to therapy,” Will argued. 

Unmoved by Will’s tone, Hannibal retorted, “You might enjoy the indulgence, if you allow yourself.”

Will stared at Hannibal’s profile in silence. He straightened in his chair, then leaned rigidly forward over his knees, clasping his hands together and leaving no mistake where his attention was focused. There were too many absurdities in Hannibal’s entire line of thinking for Will to choose only one to pluck from the lineup. Hannibal turned to match Will’s body language, bringing them only inches from one another. In such close proximity, Hannibal was razor sharp, his focus unwavering even as his pupils pooled. He looked decisive to the point of being nearly predatory. Still, the air between them never soured; it remained thick with distinctly different emotions. 

Warmth. Fascination. Appreciation. Understanding. 

Will’s brain snapped together pieces of a puzzle; his mind had almost constructed the image Hannibal’s dark eyes seemed to openly reflect when the other man gently brushed an errant curl back from Will’s forehead and spoke in his deep, inviting voice. 

“Consider it.”  
  
For a few breathless seconds, the two men observed one another. Then, the clock in the hall struck nine, the sound of its heavy tones reverberating throughout the space, and time seemed to move too quickly. Hannibal leaned back and stood abruptly. A few words-- “It’s rather late, Will. You have a long drive.”-- and before Will realized it, he was sitting in his driver’s seat staring at his windshield as it unfogged. 

He was misunderstanding; that was the only explanation. Hannibal was always cryptic— at least as far as Will was concerned-- and he specialized in unsettling Will on a visceral level. This was only a job well done for Hannibal Lecter, nothing more. The older man undoubtedly had pitched the entire concept of courtship as a way to draw Will into the actual conversation he wanted to have— namely, one about commitment. Yet, when his fingertips came to push the lock of hair from Will’s face, Will hadn’t found a single trace of deception. Will drove home tired and unnerved, and when he went to bed that night, he resolved to push away the thoughts he knew would only lead him to obsession. After all, he thought, Hannibal tended to play ambiguous games that remained just below the surface; his comments would result in nothing more than Will’s discomfort. No, it was better— safer— to push the night out of his mind, resume the intimate but wholly unlabeled relationship they had begun, and go on with life. 

These were the things Will told himself up to the point, four days after their evening together, when he and Hannibal were both summoned to a crime scene. A husband and wife were killed and an assortment of their internal organs swapped; Jack was pushing for it to be named one of the Ripper’s murders, but Will was certain it wasn’t. Will suspected Jack, too, knew this deep down, but the hard-headed agent had been just hopeful enough to call Hannibal for a second opinion before Will had even arrived and delivered the _first_ opinion. 

It was just after 8 AM when Hannibal arrived, two cups of coffee in his hands. When he silently offered one to Will, his eyes were gleaming mahogany, glowing from within as a curious grin ghosted across his face. Nobody noticed the few beats between when Hannibal outstretched his hand and when Will took the warm cup from his grasp. That morning, the pair didn’t speak about anything other than the two mutilated bodies upstairs. 

At their session two days later, neither mentioned the bottle of scotch sitting carefully on Will’s chair-- the same distillery and year he tended to choose when selecting from Hannibal’s generous assortment. Likewise, when Jack asked Hannibal to consult on a case preparing to go to trial wherein the defendant was pleading insanity, neither Will nor Hannibal discussed the leather laptop case that appeared on Will’s desk and happened to be a perfect fit for his scratched, yet perfectly functional, MacBook. 

Next came the gloves, then the jar of homemade dog treats, then the kit of high-quality flyfishing lure materials, then the 1892 edition of _Leaves of Grass_ , and, most recently, a watch that was much sturdier— and much more expensive— than the one Will had worn since he was an officer in Louisiana. Interspersed throughout these gifts was a steady stream of Tupperware filled with gourmet meals, thermoses of rich coffee, and glasses of wines that cost more than Will’s weekly grocery budget. 

After a month of neither mentioning Hannibal’s gifts nor declining them, Will had nearly come to expect _something_ each time he and Hannibal were both called to a crime scene or when Hannibal was summoned to Quantico. Will had to admit that for a group of FBI employees, the BAU team was fairly bad at noticing the new pattern emerging before their own eyes. 

Still, Will laid in bed at night torn between conflicting impulses: As often as he felt a sense of overwhelming obligation that tempted him to get in his car in his pajamas, drive to Baltimore, and leave every last gift on Hannibal’s doorstep (well, save for those gifts that had already been eaten), he was just as frequently confident that Hannibal deserved nothing but disdain for unilaterally deciding that he was going to bring courtship into the 21st century. Will didn’t know Hannibal’s financial situation— didn’t want to know it, either— but he assumed the doctor wasn’t exactly driving himself into debt with laptop covers and coffee. Will had chosen not to look up the cost of any particular item to maintain what little sanity he had remaining, but he sensed the total expense was closer to “excessive” than “exorbitant.”

Perhaps most strangely, throughout the entirety of Hannibal’s gifting spree, their relationship remained otherwise unchanged. Will would go to Hannibal’s office on Wednesdays to talk about cases and nightmares; he would go to Hannibal’s home on Fridays to learn a new recipe, eat a good meal, and fall asleep with skin pressed to skin. The weekends were increasingly occupied by lazy mornings, late breakfasts, comfortable silences, and shared breaths. To be entirely honest, if Hannibal had not started his game of bringing Will gifts each time they were in public together, Will probably would have been the first to crack and ask the perennially agonizing question: What are we? But it was too late for that now. Hannibal had chosen to torment Will with generosity, and Will would be damned if he broke down and gave Hannibal the impression for even a moment that his ridiculous plan had worked. 

The only potential stumbling block Will could identify was if his colleagues noticed their unfolding game and blatantly asked about the nature of their relationship. However, Will Graham soon realized how laughable this worry was.


	2. Chapter 2

Valentine’s Day was less than one week away. When Will first started working at Quantico as a professor, he had presumed such a hallowed institution would shun the commercialism and whimsy of Valentine’s Day. In the years since that first holiday, he had learned better. The federal government was simply no match for corporate marketing and an excuse to brandish flirtation like a weapon. With that in mind, Will was unsurprised now to see overflowing candy bowls at every secretary’s station, bouquets lined up like infantry on the reception desk by noon each day, and trainees floating into class with red envelopes or boxes of candy. Will’s students never chanced dropping off a friendly card or gift, and Will surmised this fully proved his approach to teaching was working exactly as he’d intended.

In all fairness, Will did include a few images of the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre in his weeklong series on behavioral analysis in relation to mass murders. Nobody could claim he was snubbing festivities. 

In spite of the preceding two months of gift-giving as well as the ubiquitous holiday quickly approaching, Will still found enough disbelief within himself to scowl as Hannibal stood in the darkened entryway to listen as the professor finished his lecture; he held what looked like a cake box in his hands. Hannibal stood statue-still and silent as the last ten minutes of class ticked by, and if any students noticed him, they did a good impression of pretending they didn’t. The black-and-white photos from 1929 flashed across the screen, showing a row of bodies splayed out with blood pooling under each corpse’s head; from the students-- already timid around Will Graham-- the images elicited only a few raised brows and widened eyes. Hannibal redeemed himself a minute bit by being the only one in the room to smile at Will's dark joke. 

When Will dismissed the class, Hannibal stood politely near the back of the room and waited until the first bustling rush of trainees passed him in a whispering flurry. The few students lingering attempted discretion as they glanced at the polished man who began to stride toward their waiting professor; Will crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against his desk as he allowed Hannibal to approach him. He fixed his face into a disapproving grimace as he gazed through his glasses, but based on how the doctor’s eyes caught the secret grin tugging at his lips, Will suspected Hannibal saw _something_ in his pose or countenance that gave away the sting of horrifying pleasure that now seemed to accompany even their smallest reunions. 

“You’re a long way from Baltimore,” Will observed as Hannibal came to stand in front of him. 

Hannibal straightened his shoulders and replied, “Geography isn't a factor in Jack Crawford’s requests.” Then, with a painfully straight face, he added, “I’ve become accustomed to trekking into the wilder parts of Virginia as of late anyhow.”

Will didn’t smile, though he was ashamed to find he wanted to. 

“What’s in the box?” he asked instead. 

Hannibal offered the box to Will, who hesitated for a few seconds before taking it. Will stood from his half-sitting position on the edge of his desk, took the box a touch too roughly from Hannibal’s hands, and put it down on the desk behind him with a soft thump. It was lighter than expected, and when he dropped it, there was a rattling sound inside. Will looked at Hannibal questioningly, but the other man's straight line of a mouth indicated he felt the tiniest twinge of annoyance— though not surprise— at Will’s lack of ceremony. Will scanned the classroom and saw two students still loitering as they sluggishly packed their materials; he frowned at them, and their pace quickened noticeably. When the two students exited the room with hurried steps, Will finally looked down at the simple white giftbox secured with a rose gold ribbon. He glanced at Hannibal, whose face still gave away nothing, and pulled the bow loose. He popped the lid halfway open with his index fingers, saw what was inside, and huffed out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. 

Inside, secured on a bed of white tissue paper, was an assortment of small sugar cookies patterned after candy hearts. Will only looked long enough to see one of them read “Be Mine” and another depicted a perfect red rose. 

Side-eyeing Hannibal as he closed the box, Will said in a flat voice, “Tell me you didn’t make these.”

Hannibal, perennially self-assured, replied, “I’m afraid I didn’t. I maintain a good relationship with a pastry chef who opened a bakery last fall, and I trust her talents immensely.”

Will cocked his head to the side as he looked fully back at Hannibal.

“So, you went to an overpriced bakery, saw these, and thought of me?”

The look on Hannibal’s face wasn’t quite displeased, but it wasn’t terribly far off either. However, it lacked the darkness Will had seen flash across the other man’s eyes before. 

“No,” Hannibal began, speaking deliberately, “I ordered them.”

A grin of pure amusement at last overtook Will’s trained scowl, and while Hannibal knew the expression was at his own expense, he couldn’t quite stop his own features from softening at the sight. 

“I, uh, truly don’t know what to say,” Will managed to comment through his smile. 

Hannibal took half a step forward and brought his hand to rest along Will’s stubbled jaw. Almost reflexively, Will let his face rest heavier in the man’s palm. 

“If I had known something as trivial as cookies would put you in such a good humor, I would have gifted them sooner.”

Some of the teasing had dissolved from Will’s countenance and was replaced with a furrowed brow. The rest of his body, however, relaxed at the affectionate hand still holding his face. 

“There shouldn’t be any gifts,” Will muttered as he turned his mouth to kiss the wrist of Hannibal’s outstretched arm. 

At Will’s words, Hannibal stepped closer still, keeping his light hold on Will’s face with one hand while bringing the other to rest on top of the stiff leather of Will’s belt as he lightly gripped the younger man’s waist. 

“Why?” 

Will halfway rolled his eyes but couldn’t manage to look as exasperated as he needed to dissuade Hannibal.

“It’s unnecessary.”

Hannibal hummed in a mockery of pondering Will’s claim as he brought his mouth to Will’s temple. 

“Water, food, shelter— nothing more?” Will could feel Hannibal’s mouth turning upward against his skin. “Even Spartans permitted camaraderie.”

Will sighed into the squared shoulder of a suit jacket that had been tailored to perfection. His eyes rose to look beyond it at the classroom door that was not quite shut. Someone would have to make a conscious effort to look through the crack in order to see them, but it would be easily pushed aside. A small flare of guilt made Will’s face feel hot. 

“Spartans would’ve drawn the line at designer snacks,” Will protested without any force. 

“Will your colleagues?” Hannibal asked innocently as his hand moved from Will’s face to brush through his hair before landing on the side of his neck loosely. 

Will imagined they would not object whatsoever to scarfing down a box of bakery treats; he also imagined they might wonder who their kindly benefactor was. Hannibal wasn’t quite as sly as he liked to imagine. Will let his fingertips tap on the lid of the box as he considered dumping it into the nearest trashcan as soon as Hannibal was out of sight. The doctor’s eyes didn’t follow the noise, instead looking down at the watch on his wrist. He didn't wait for Will to answer his question. 

“Wouldn’t want Agent Crawford to come searching for me,” he said mildly, and Will tried not to blanch at the prospect. “I should be on my way.”

Will nodded as Hannibal gave his thigh a final squeeze, his hand too far from anywhere indecent to be inappropriate yet still interesting as far as Will’s body was concerned. Once more, Will hoped his face wasn’t betraying him by turning a festive shade of pink. In an instant, Hannibal had backed away to a respectable distance; he smoothed the nonexistent wrinkles from his lapels and was turning to head toward the door he had entered through.

Will’s voice was even in spite of his busy mind as he called out, “Still feeding me this Saturday?” 

“If you appear on my doorstep, I’ll play the host,” Hannibal answered indifferently, then made his way to the door on light feet. 

Hannibal knew Will would be there as much as Will knew Hannibal had already planned out their meal to the tiniest, most excruciating detail. A part of Will that he very much wished to keep far away from the light of day wondered what gift might be awaiting him then. 

Standing from his desk, Will snatched the box and made his way to the lab. He was expected there to review autopsy findings with Beverly, and he couldn’t imagine the cookies going to waste with her, Price, and Zeller around. As he walked by the glass wall separating the lab space from the hall, Will saw Beverly pulling off a pair of gloves, so he tapped on the glass and held the box up. She met him at the doors and broke into a wide smile as he popped open the lid to show the box’s contents. 

“Meet you in the break room— we’ve reinstated a strict ‘no food or drink’ policy since the coffee incident last week,” Beverly greeted him, then whipped her head around to look for Jimmy and Brian. 

There had technically always been a policy against eating or drinking in the lab, but one too many all-nighters under the heel of Jack Crawford had led to that rule being relaxed lately; Will had not heard about any coffee incident, but he didn’t ask for clarification. Instead, he retreated to the small break room halfway down the hall from the lab space. Some thirty seconds later, Beverly breezed in as though she had not been elbow-deep in a corpse less than an hour ago. Will pushed the box across the table as Beverly sat down opposite him. 

“Didn’t peg you as the Valentine’s type, Graham,” Beverly commented, opening the box and eyeing the assortments of decorated hearts. 

He had known this was coming and had prepared his response on his walk to the lab. 

“I’m not,” Will gruffly answered. “Dr. Lecter dropped these off.”

He hoped using Hannibal’s title would keep Beverly from considering why the man had dropped off a box of cookies. It wasn’t unreasonable to think he would want to showboat where food was concerned, but Will didn’t want to have to lie to the woman across from him. He also didn’t want to tell the truth either, of course. 

“Jack told me about his cooking— he’s kind of a foodie, right?” Beverly asked, not expecting an answer, as her eyes moved over the contents of the box rapidly. She reached her long, slim fingers in and plucked a cookie from the paper. 

“So, tell me about the body,” Will unsubtly changed the subject. “What’d you find?”

Beverly took a bite and chewed as she collected her thoughts. She had just swallowed and was preparing to speak when Price and Zeller burst into the space and made a beeline for the box on the table. 

“These are adorable,” Jimmy remarked as he peered into the box. 

“Are they any good?” Zeller indelicately asked Beverly, who had taken another bite and was back to chewing. 

She nodded her head enthusiastically, then remarked as if in explanation, "Courtesy of Dr. Lecter," 

Zeller grabbed one and ate half of it in a single chomp. 

Jimmy rolled his eyes and returned to assessing each cookie as he searched for the perfect one. 

“They look like oversized conversation hearts,” Jimmy said to himself as he tilted the box, causing the cookies to slide enough for him to see what the hidden treats in the middle of the pile had painted across them. 

Looking over Jimmy’s shoulder and speaking with half of a mouthful, Zeller read, “Too cute? Lover? Gross.”

“Come on, Bri, some of them aren’t so bad— that one’s a dog,” Jimmy replied, nodding toward something in the box.

Will’s eyes shot to where the two men were standing by the table.

Jimmy tilted the box again, causing more of the cookies on top to slide away. 

“A lot of dogs,” Brian observed, brows knitting. “Are dogs part of Valentine’s Day in…wherever Dr. Lecter is from?”

“Lithuania,” Will supplied, too quickly. Lamely, he added, “I think.”

“That one has an underbite!” Jimmy pointed out. 

Abruptly, Will stood, pushing his chair back with a screech. The three looked at him with puzzled expressions. 

“I like dogs,” Will commented, knowing that this entire exchange would only further cement his status as the oddest man at Quantico, perhaps including the suspects brought in occasionally for the trainees to watch be interrogated by senior agents. 

Jimmy and Brian glanced hastily at one another, then Jimmy offered the box back to Will. Will steeled himself for what he was about to see. When he looked down into the pile of cookies, he didn’t allow the smallest flinch of facial muscle as he beheld the icing countenances of his family of strays. None of the team had been to his house— a bold yet accurate assumption on Hannibal’s part— and they had no clue Will chose to live with a ragtag pack of seven canines. Seeing Zoe’s pronounced underbite, Winston’s black and brown speckled muzzle, and Ellie’s fluff caused Will’s throat to constrict and his heart to seize in his chest. It looked like there were at least two cookies devoted to each of his dogs; only the top cookies had been patterned after the chalky candy hearts unique to Valentine's Day.

To the three watching Will, he appeared to be a man holding a box of fancy cookies with a look on his face that landed somewhere between bored and unimpressed. He casually offered the box back to Jimmy and took his seat across from Beverly again, this time with less commotion. 

He shrugged at the three watching him. 

“I’ll ask about it the next time I see Dr. Lecter,” Will said, hoping he sounded appropriately detached. “No sedatives?”

Beverly blinked twice in confusion before realizing Will was resuming their conversation about the autopsy. She was happy to launch back into her findings, though, finishing her cookie to better gesture with her hands. Will mostly listened to her.

When Will left work that evening, he took the half-empty box home with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was chapter was for the Candy Hearts/Bakery spaces. Hope it was a good Monday snack! ;-)


	3. Love Letters

Will Graham liked to believe he could handle most things life threw at him. He’d been stabbed, shot at, splattered with blood, harassed by peers and psychiatrists alike throughout his life, and saddled with a “gift” he’d never asked for. The Friday before Valentine’s Day, however, tried his patience. 

He woke, let his dogs loose, then stumbled to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee, but when he turned on the faucet, a thin stream of water came out followed by a gurgle of air, then absolutely nothing. Will checked the circuit breaker praying to the gods of home repair that electricity was the problem; when all appeared well, he knew it was an issue with the well pump— an issue he didn’t have the equipment, or knowledge, to fix. The dogs’ water bowls were still full, but Will grabbed a plastic pitcher and went to every tap in the house, draining what water he could from the pipes just in case. Then, he began searching the internet for a repairman-- or, rather, he began searching after a twelve-minute software update that his laptop chose that moment to begin.

Seven calls later, he found a repairman that could come out and take a look…on Monday. With that information, Will knew what he needed to do, but he truly didn’t want to do it. He waited, paced the house, called two more well repair services that were both too far from Wolf Trap to be viable options, Googled “well pump repair DIY,” then called Hannibal. 

_“Hello?”_

Will thought about hanging up.

“Hey,” he greeted uncomfortably. 

_“Will?”_

An awkward pause stretched between them. 

In a rush, Will blurted, “I don’t have any water. The repairman can’t get out here until Monday.”

Another few seconds passed in silence, and Will almost felt offended that Hannibal hadn’t immediately offered to put Will up for a few nights. 

_“Is there any way I can assist?”_ Hannibal asked, sounding far too sincere.

Will dragged a hand over his face, realizing what Hannibal was angling for. 

“Would it be okay if I stayed with you—” Will sighed— “please?”

He could practically hear Hannibal’s smug grin crack wide open from across state lines. 

_“I would be glad to have you stay the weekend, Will. I already expected you for Saturday.”_

Will refused to thank the man. They both knew damn well how pleased Hannibal was to have Will in his home, and even if Will hadn’t asked, he would’ve offered it. Eventually.

“I need to arrange for a dog sitter to come over, and I need to get a few more jugs of water. I’ll be over this evening after work.”

_“Whatever suits you, Will.”_

It was likely the doctor sensed Will rolling his eyes even if he couldn’t see it. Will ended the call before Hannibal could be polite again. 

That was how the day started. Sadly, it didn’t get any better as the hours ticked by. First, Will had to take a five-mile detour on his way to the nearest grocery store to get water for his dogs because of an accident blocking the winding two-lane road that was his normal route. Then, the cashier at the grocery store wanted to make conversation about the ten two-gallon jugs of water Will was buying— which, admittedly, might have been overkill— because that was apparently odd to folks who didn’t have seven dogs. By the time he returned home and called a neighbor whose teenage son was a more or less sufficient candidate for the esteemed role of dog sitter, Will was already an hour behind schedule. Unable to shower, brush his teeth, or drink a single drop of coffee, he dressed hurriedly, threw a few garments in a weekender bag, and took off for Quantico, arriving twenty-three minutes after his lecture was supposed to start. The fact that not a single student had abandoned the room was a testament to how fearsome Professor Graham was in his students’ minds. 

Will was feeling only a touch better by the time class ended; there was something therapeutic in raving about a murderer for fifty minutes straight. However, his reprieve was short-lived: Kade Prurnell darkened his doorway as soon as the last student exited. Everything from her thin-lipped expression to her practical kitten heels pissed Will off with fervor and immediacy.

“Ms. Prurnell,” Will called out as looked back down at his laptop screen. “To what do I owe this honor? I was under the impression your precious time was reserved for real agents.”

Kade looked through Will as she approached him. 

“It is, which is why I’d prefer if we kept this conversation short.”

Will glanced up from behind his glances and tried not to hiss as he replied, “Fine by me.”

Kade exhaled sharply, pushed her shoulders back, and lifted her jaw. She adopted the tone of an FBI director when she spoke.

“You received an unusual parcel this morning, Mr. Graham. Frankly, it was more than unusual— it was suspect.”

Will narrowed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. 

“No return address. No postage. It appeared to be hand-delivered, but nobody could recall seeing a courier. We were forced to open it.”

A scoff escaped Will’s lips in a puff.

“You opened my mail?”

“I opened mail delivered to an employee at his place of work,” Kade corrected. “And I can’t say I regret my decision. The contents were…disturbing.”

Will’s expression didn’t change as he beheld Kade Prurnell with a blend of disgust and judgment that made his brows raise even as his jaw tightened and his eyes remained narrowed. 

“I work for the FBI,” he ground out. “I often receive packages with _disturbing_ contents.”

Kade shook her head and clucked her tongue at him. Will wanted to leap over his desk. 

“Not like this. Follow me.”

Without waiting, Kade turned and walked out of the classroom with sure steps. Will bit his cheek to stop from telling Kade what she could do with his package and that he would not be going anywhere with her, thanks. Instead, he rose at a leisurely pace and followed behind her without hurry. When he entered her office, she was already standing behind her desk, a large leather-bound book in her hands. 

Will closed the door behind himself and began to feel a sense of dread pull at the muscles in his chest. 

“I’m not keen on jumping to conclusions, but unless this was an item you requested for some godforsaken reason, I’m afraid you might have an admirer,” Kade said as she offered Will the book. 

Will accepted it hesitantly and sat down in the chair placed directly before Kade’s desk, only somewhat feeling like a child called to the principal’s office. He opened it to a point in the middle of the pages and immediately understood the issue. 

“The level of detail is obsessive, Mr. Graham,” Kade pointed out. “We will be checking security footage to determine the source of this package, but I urge you—“

With his eyes screwed shut, Will shook his head and held up a hand as a signal for Kade to _just_ stop talking. When he opened his eyes, Will looked back down at the book in his lap: The page held a drawing that depicted Will buttoning one of the shirts he frequently wore to work, eyes downcast to focus on the movement of his fingers but a small, genuine smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It was clearly an image drawn from life, and while Will couldn’t remember the specific moment captured there, he knew the artist was not an interloper in the scene. He had no doubt who the artist was, in fact. 

“Please don’t check the footage,” Will requested. “This isn’t from a stalker or a psychopath or even a misguided art student.”

Kade raised an eyebrow questioningly.

“Explain.”

Will stared down at the image lovingly captured and groaned aloud. 

“I’m seeing someone. He’s—“ Will waved his hands “—dramatic.”

Now, both of Kade Prurnell’s eyebrows were raised in disapproving arches. Will could feel how red his face must be, but he couldn’t conjure any of the words that might possibly help him escape the situation unscathed. 

The two sat without speaking for a full minute. 

“Mr. Graham, tell your boyfriend—“

A pained sound originating somewhere in Will’s chest rattled in his throat.

“—that only professional correspondence should be delivered to Quantico from here forward.”

Another thirty seconds passed in silence as Will wished for a quick and painless death. Eventually, Will couldn’t stand how thickly the air hung in the room as it became charged with Kade Prurnell’s contempt. 

“Can I go now?” 

“Please do,” Kade immediately snapped. 

Will was out of the chair and into the hallway before she had a chance to reconsider and rake him over the coals. He clutched the sketchbook close to his chest and kept his gaze averted as he made his way back to his classroom. When he arrived, he slammed the door shut behind him and locked it instinctively. It wasn’t until he was back at his desk, awash in the familiarity of his things and the security of the locked door, that he reopened the book. 

Will took his time with each page, eyes scanning across the details then circling back again. He kept his fingers far from the lines, not wanting to smudge the drawings even as he simmered in his ire. Hannibal had gone too far this time, and there was no argument that could be made to the contrary. Well, no reasonable argument-- will was quite sure Hannibal would try to piece together some sort of meandering logic to justify his actions.

Still, flipping through the pages and seeing the entirety of their relationship given a new life in black and white gave Will pause. He could see why Kade had assumed Will had a stalker when she saw the series of drawings illustrating every facet of Will’s life over the preceding months:

Will scowling at Hannibal during their first meeting in Jack’s office,

Will splattered with Garrett Jacob Hobbs’ blood, 

Will slumped in a hospital room chair, 

Will gazing down from the loft in Hannibal’s office, 

Will pouring over a case file, Will looking into a glass of wine, 

Will gazing directly forward with a look of curiosity and intense focus, 

Will getting an MRI in a flimsy hospital gown, 

Will in a hospital bed nursing a bowl of glorified chicken soup, 

Will in his own bed at home with Winston curled by his side, 

Will across a dinner table with an empty plate in front of him, 

Will in front of a fireplace…

It went on like that-- a history of Will Graham from the perspective of Hannibal Lecter, doctor and utter bastard. No detail was overlooked-- which made Will cringe as he thought of Kade Prurnell seeing moments of quiet intimacy never meant for her eyes. If it was possible to read an artist’s emotions in the lines and shading of his work, there were only a handful of feelings that came to mind: Reverence. Adoration. _Love._

Will sat in the silence of the classroom until thirty seconds before his next class was due to start. Only then did he unlock the door and let the sea of trainees flood into the room. The sketchbook stayed safely tucked in Will’s bag until he arrived in Baltimore that evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I took some liberties with the prompt "love letters." Hope you all haven't gotten too many cavities yet from all of this sweet, sweet (ridiculous) fluff 💗💗


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